


Restless; Wrecked.

by ViolettaWrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avery is mentioned twice I guess, F/M, Romance, Sex is had, Slightly dark fluff I guess, Time Travel, Tom Riddle's point of view, Vague allusion to masturbation, happy ending aww, he's not important, he's talking about Hermione, if that isn't clear, not super light hearted but not ehh angsty, okay sorry done tagging, prompt, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaWrites/pseuds/ViolettaWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You saw me before I saw you.<br/>And there was murder in your eyes.<br/>And I was intrigued.<br/>----<br/>Dumbledore thought I was cruel, but he didn't understand that I was just bored.<br/>You understood.</p><p>I could tell by the way it took so long for you to try and kill me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restless; Wrecked.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for Tomione Kink Meme’s First Summer Challenge on Tumblr. (tomionekinkmeme.tumblr.com).
> 
> These are the rules:  
> 1) Must be written in second person.  
> 2) First line must start with: You saw me before I saw you.  
> 3) Minimum 1500 words.
> 
> This is actually my first fanfic ever. So, uh, go easy on me. But let me know what you think!  
> Thanks!

You saw me before I saw you. 

And there was _murder_ in your eyes. 

And I was _intrigued._

I thought you’d come towards me, hex me right then and there.  I was hoping for it. It’d been ages since my last good duel, and I was itching for a reason, any reason at all. 

Dumbledore thought I was cruel, but he didn’t understand that I was just _bored._

You understood. 

I could tell you understood by the way you sat in class, listening, absorbing, and then sighing when a Hufflepuff rattled off the wrong answer. I could tell by the way you forgot to nod politely when the girls at breakfast twittered over Quidditch and boys and boys who played Quidditch. I could tell by the way you didn't look up from your Arithmancy homework when Avery asked if you were going to Hogsmeade that weekend.

Later, I could tell by the way you followed me into the Forbidden Forest when I asked you to, by the way your nails scratched down my back as I braced you against the tree and by the way the words you gasped against my neck changed from _this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong_ to _don’t you dare stop_ when I offered to do just that.

I could tell by the way it took so long for you to try and kill me.

It didn't happen for months. I watched you. You studied me when you thought I wasn't looking and that rage never left your eyes, but a morbid sort of curiosity began to accompany it, like I wasn't acting like you thought I would, and I wanted to know what that look was about, I wanted to know why you winced when my name was said, I wanted to know why you transferred to Hogwarts so late, and more than anything I wanted to know _you._ I wanted to know what you were thinking and what you were feeling and why you said the things you did and for the first time in as long as I could remember something caught my interest and held it, and it was you, and I just wanted to _know_ you. Biblically.

I watched the way you wished a happy death day to Nearly Headless Nick, the way you turned lost first-years in the right direction. You had this distracted sort of kindness like you weren't trying to be generous with your patience, you certainly had better things to do, but it was habit. I didn't understand it. The way you could be so similar and yet so different from me. My kindness was calculated. I built a persona of the likable head boy, all charisma and charm, and it was _exhausting._

I tried to keep up the act with you, at first. That first day, after you didn't move to duel me, didn't move really at all, I approached you. “I’m sorry, but have we met before?” I said, a hand deliberately mussing my hair and a bashful grin on my face. I was going for approachable, I was going for amiable, I was going for not-a-threat. You were obviously unimpressed.

“No,” you replied. And your eyes were narrowed and your body was tense, and it was thrilling, _thrilling,_ because it was a mystery, _you_ were a mystery, and it’d been so long since I’d had a decent one of those.

I found out all I could about you. It wasn't much. People weren't perceptive; they didn't see that what you were telling them clearly wasn't the truth. You were careful but you slipped up, paused too long before giving answers, fingers gripping your books just a touch too tight. You were a good liar, but I was better and you had a tell.

You apparently tried to find out about me too. I saw you, two months into the year, in a corner of the common room you always seemed so uncomfortable in, with him, with Avery, standing just close enough to be questionably appropriate, just close enough for me to feel a flash of jealousy. I was used to jealousy, I’d tried very hard to be self-aware, to know my short-comings, and so I knew how possessive of things I could get, but to be jealous of a _person_ , oh that was exciting, that was _new._

I wondered briefly what you would do if I went over there, wrenched you apart, pushed you up against the wall, and promised to show you just how much _more_ I could be than him.

I didn't need to.

Your hushed tones grew louder and Avery’s face grew irritated and then he was whirling around, pointing at me, yelling, “Would you two quit asking about each other and just go on a bloody _date."_

And I smiled because how opportune, and I smiled because when I offered “Seven? Friday?” you were trapped, and you nodded, and I was delighted.

The day came and you met me in the common room and it was the first time I’d seen your _legs,_ not hidden beneath school robes, and I was too distracted to say a word until we reached the café, and I was furious with myself. I valued my control, and you were _wrecking_ it.

The waitress showed us to a secluded booth, and when I smiled at her, she stuttered, and you finally broke the silence with a huffed out, “how are they so _daft?”_

“Sorry?” I inquired, though I suspected I knew what you meant. 

Your eyes had that rage in them again, that knowing sort of hatred that seemed reserved for me, and you bit out, “How does no one see how manipulative you are? How disingenuous?”

And my curiosity was fierce as I leaned close over the table and asked you how you _did_.

You didn’t answer, not until the appetizer had been taken away and the main course was nearly finished and my impatience had manifested in the way I shook my foot.

“Your eyes are flat. Not like now. There’s a spark in them now, like you’re following the conversation, but usually, usually it’s like you’re doing what you’re supposed to, but you’re thinking of something else.”

“You do that too,” I said. Because it was true. You did. It was part of why I wanted so badly to know what you were thinking. Because you never seemed to actually _tell_ anyone.

“I do not!” you replied, and I laughed because you sounded so offended, you sounded so _young._ It was a real laugh, I didn't plan it, and I think you noticed because you _blushed._

The rest of the “date” went poorly. You deflected and I was persistent and you were defensive, and then we were standing in the great hall and you had turned away and you were practically _stomping,_ and I grabbed your hand, and for a second you let me before you seemed to remember who I was.

I wanted desperately to know how you knew who I was.

You avoided me.

For four weeks you avoided me, and I watched you, and I tried so hard to figure you out.

I wasn’t alone again with you until you ran into me in the library. It was dark and it was past curfew and you were clutching a book to your chest, obviously in a hurry so as not to be caught, and you literally ran straight into me, and I caught you, my hands firm on your bare arms, and it was electric.

And then I saw the thick book in your hands, _Theory of Time Travel,_ and suddenly things were very clear.

You ran and I let you because suddenly all I could remember was everything that hadn't _fit_ before- the way your hairstyle didn't match and your diction was a touch too casual and the way you simply didn't seem to _belong._

But then again, I didn't either.

I didn’t say a word, not for a week, not to anyone about your secret, and not to you at all. 

You cornered me after class, tugging me into a nook behind a threadbare tapestry of a battle of some sort. “Stop _smiling_ at me,” you said, and I laughed.

“You don’t know anything,” you said, but you looked flustered and you looked fierce and for the first time, you looked _scared._

“Who am I? In the future?” I asked because I’d worked it out, then, how you knew me, and I wanted to _know._  

You lips pressed together and I fought the sudden urge to separate them with my tongue, but then you were answering, and at first I didn't hear you, and then you were clearing your throat and repeating, louder now, full of _disdain_ now, “No one good.”

You left, but it didn't end, I couldn't let it end, so I followed you around for weeks, peppering you with questions you almost never answered, our relationship growing into perhaps not a friendship, but _something_.

And then you whirled on me, annoyance clear on your features, and you let out an utterly exasperated “what will it take for you to be _quiet?”_ and I kissed you.

I didn't mean to, I didn't think about it, not like how I think so carefully about everything else. You were just there and you weren't scared anymore, you weren't even full of rage or hate, and it was like a pull I couldn't resist. You were the moon and I was the tide, and metaphors are tedious, but I was _helpless._ You didn't pull back like I expected. You dropped your book like you felt it too, the _need_ , and your hand was winding in my hair, pulling me closer, until we broke away to breathe, and then you bolted.

We spent more time together then, not just between classes but after too. You sat with me by the lake and we did our homework together, but mostly we just sat next to each other, a comfortable sort of silence as the norm.

“You look young,” you told me on a rare sunny day, when I was stretched out on the grass. Your words echoed my thoughts about you when you laughed at the restaurant and I wondered why it seemed so odd for us to look our age.

I was still that day. You traced patterns on my hands while I simply lied there. I was still, but I wasn't restless. I wasn't bored, and it was odd. It was good.

We didn't talk about the kiss. Not for a while. Not until the tension was so palpable I had to draw the curtains of my bed at night, wait until the others were asleep, picture your eyes and your hair and your smile and your legs, and _stroke._

And then you let me take you in the forest, let me hear you moan my name as my tongue moved circles around your clit, and it was _intoxicating._

And then of course you tried to kill me.

I think something must have clicked, like the orgasms rolling off you that night had flicked some kind of switch in your head that made you remember just how far you had deviated from your original mission.

You had me meet you and I knew something was off. You were twitchy, jumpy, uncharacteristically so, but you could have asked me to follow you to Wales at that point and I would have done it.

When you pointed your wand at my chest, I was utterly unsurprised, but I couldn't say it didn't _hurt-_  not the wand but the intent- and that was curious because it was a feeling I was absolutely unfamiliar with. Dumbledore had met with me on more than one occasion since he had introduced me to Hogwarts, and the hope he seemed to have in me very quickly became something else, like he was disappointed in me, and then like he was alarmed or even _afraid._ He implied I was incapable of emotion, and I believed it to be true. Until then. Because I couldn't deny how I so wanted you to not be disappointed in me too. Dumbledore always seemed to give me excuses to be worse, but you, you managed to give me a reason to be _better._

“ _No one good.”_ Echoed in my head, and suddenly I realized how badly I wanted that not to be true.

“I’m going to kill you,” you said, after minutes had passed with your wand still aimed at me.

I nodded. “I think you could,” I said because it was true. You were kind and generous and _good_ , that much was obvious, but I couldn't forget the way you had looked that first day- angry and desperate and _lethal._

“I really wish you wouldn't,” I said.

You didn't move.

“ _Hermione,”_ I added, my voice low and ragged and _wrecked_. I didn’t know if it was a plea or a statement of understanding, if I was asking you to spare my life or giving you permission to end it. I just knew it was the only thing that mattered, you were the only thing that ever mattered.

Your wand sagged, your whole body sagged, and you _screamed_ in frustration, animalistic and frustrated and honestly _jarring._ And then your arms were wrapped around me and my hand was rubbing circles on your back, and you whispered very quietly, “I didn't expect you to be so human,”

You kissed me before I kissed you.


End file.
